


"Always, Iggy. Always."

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluffabet, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 15:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12585260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Cape Caem is very much their little reminder of home amid the war and chaos their lives have become.





	"Always, Iggy. Always."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted over at my [Tumblr](aithilin.tumblr.com). From [Fluffabet 2.0](http://aithilin.tumblr.com/post/166728637469/fluffabet-20) \- C and Y

Cape Caem was the only real haven where they had a proper kitchen to cook in. The caravans were all equipped with the basics, of course, and there were rooms in some motels and hotels where they could pay extra for the kitchenettes. But the cottage in Caem, the little home carved out of the chaos and war was the only real kitchen they had access to most of the time. There was a charm to it, and a sense of normalcy that didn’t come from the little stoves and the greasy counters they found elsewhere. There was a quaint reminder of home in Caem that wasn’t found over the campfires across the kingdom, with their ancient magics and Oracle blessings. 

It was always a relief to climb that hill to the cottage, to drop bags in the doorway and a load of laundry cast off to take care of. To wander in when Dustin or Monica were working on lunch or dinner, with their tight-lipped smiles and warm greetings for their exhausted king and comrades. With Cor lurking with a piece of toast or a mug of coffee, pulling Noctis aside for a quick report and check in. Where Talcott would show off his latest creation, his latest experiment, determined to help with the chores as much as possible. And where Iris beamed over her harvests, teasing Noctis into at least trying the produce from their gardens. 

Caem was the place where they could feel like they still had a home in the kingdom, despite the ruins of Insomnia and the daemons prowling and growing and infecting. Despite the loss of everything else they held dear, Caem was the place where Gladio could sit out on the porch with Cor and a beer, talking long hours into the night. Where Noct and Prompto chased after each other with Talcott and Iris, trying to get the perfect picture in the height of the afternoon light. 

Where Ignis could slip down the quiet steps in the still of morning, notebook in hand, and sort through the kitchen and its stores. 

“Easy,” some mornings, Noct would join him; the king eased out of bed by a soft word or a creaky floorboard, all too aware of his friends and where they were. Most mornings, he would take up his traditional spot on the counters, overseeing the progress and recipes, reading from Ignis’ notebook with careful guidance for the new meal, or stealing tastes as it all came together. “Slowly now, Noct.”

Others would see the king, standing in his sleeping clothes at the stove or counter, following the soft directions from Ignis. Stirring batters and syrups and concoctions meant to tantalise their strange little family into the breakfast feast. 

They were always careful in the pre-dawn light, pressed together in the narrow workspace between counter and shelves— all too aware of each creak and scrape against the old floors, and the sounds of the pots and pans and the percolating coffees. They was always a moment of pause, pressed against each other in the anticipated light at the windows, as they waited for the others to wake at the last clumsy drop of a mixing bowl onto the counter, or the hastily closed cupboard door. 

There were long moments while they waited, and listened. With Ignis braced against Noctis in the dark and long shadows, where the lights didn’t quite reach, arms caging the king in as they held their breaths. Until they let their giggles at the noise catch between them, and they moved again. Where the heatbeat between them as they stopped in the resounding silence of the cool morning and waited to be caught, as if they were doing more than just making breakfast. 

Some mornings, Cor would find them. 

He would pause as Noct swiped at a smudge of flour that had found it’s way to Ignis’ cheek with his thumb. Or as Ignis let his touch linger on Noct’s hip as he examined the batters that were being made. He would stop, and help himself to some of the fresh coffee, and smile to himself as the younger men ignored the intrusion to their carefully constructed haven in the kitchen. His presence passed off with a hushed ‘good morning’ across a counter or shared coffee, soft and quiet in a morning deemed too sacred to disturb with speech. 

Other mornings, every touch and gentle word would go unnoticed by an audience. 

And Noct would smile as Ignis guided his hands, like he used to when they were younger and experimenting in the Citadel kitchens, imposing on the chefs for a glimpse of the sterile and stainless playground Ignis had grown fond of. Grinning as Ignis’ broader hands rested over his to stead the mixing bowl, the teasing words to be careful and quiet caught between them, whispered as the first break of sunlight fractured on the still-dusty windows. 

“Take care, dear Noct,” Ignis would whisper, drawing out the touch as long as he could even as the bowl scraped against the counter or the spoon Noct was stirring with rang against the ceramic; “that you don’t wake the others with your trouble making.”

“This is all your doing, Specs,” Noct would reply, pressed back against Ignis even as the other man started to move to tend to the concoctions on the stove. “All yours.”

“I suppose I must take some responsibility for this disaster. You are mine as well, after all.”

“Always, Iggy. Always.”


End file.
